Wimbledon
by BluHaze
Summary: It's the end of summer and art student Bella's life it about to be turned upside down when her brother convinces her to join him at the All England Club AKA? Wimbledon. AH Tennisward and Artella
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**July**

'Jesus!' My brother exclaimed, ducking as the ball rebounded off my racket and launched itself at his head. 'Have you not been listening to anything I have said?!'

I rolled my eyes, huffing as I lowered my racquet from where I still held it poised for battle. "I did not ask for you to teach me how to play tennis, Seth! Besides, you know that sporting activities and I do not get on." I scowled, my younger brother should have known better. I had never been good at sport. In high school I was always the last picked for a team and I spent more time in the hospital from injuries than I actually did playing.

"Look," Seth began as he loaded the ball machine with balls once more. His persistence was inspiring, despite his foolish notion that I would ever be safe enough to play tennis. "Remember to wait for the ball to come to you and swing your racquet in an upward arc to finish over your opposite shoulder." He showed me with his own racquet once more.

With a scowl I mimicked him. Going through the motions was easy, hitting the damned green ball that approached me like a missile, was another thing entirely. The growl of the ball machine I had dubbed 'The Monster' drew my attention, alerting me to the commencement of our second duel. The ball machine grumbled maliciously until an airy 'pop' resounded and it launched another missile ball my way. I watched it approach, panicked by its speed and the ferocity of the machine that launched it, I swung blindly. There was nothing but the unsatisfying whooshing sound as my racket slid through the air. Finishing the arc my brother had drilled into me, I heard the clinking of plastic chains as the ball found the court's perimeter fence behind me. I had missed, again.

"See?" I threw my arms out in frustration. "Hand-eye co-ordination is not my thing either!" With a defeated sigh I pouted, "Can we just go home now?"

Seth huffed, turning the machine off as it prepped to launch another ball at me. Sport, particularly tennis, had always come easily to him. The product of my mother's second marriage, Seth had taken after his father, Phil, who had played cricket in his youth. He had reached national level and was forced to stop through injury just as his career promised to go international. Seth had taken after his father's talents and was born to play tennis, his agility and ability to hit the ball was uncanny. He played for his school and our county and was already up for selection at national level. His talent had caused my parents to sell up and move to an area where he could access the best tennis coaches and clubs.

It almost seemed sacrilege that I was stood on one of the grass courts of the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club, or better known to the world as the home of Wimbledon. It was an honour that my brother had been allowed to play on the courts but as a Lawn Tennis Association sponsored player, he got a pass every now and again and snuck me in this day. The national tennis gods had their eyes on Seth and Seth had his eyes on the top and with Wimbledon starting in a few weeks he was getting training in before the junior tournament began. I, however, only had my eyes set on a cup of tea and a good book at home.

With a mumble about gathering his stuff from the clubhouse, my brother stalked off the court officially ending the horrendous lesson. I began to pick up the various balls strewn across the court from my impressive number of miss-hits. As I picked up the final balls and balanced them on my racquet to carry them back to the ball bag. Dropping them in, I kept one out. Eyeing the ball speculatively for a moment, I held my arm out and threw it into the air as I swung my racket, taking special care to swing as my bother had said. With a crack the strings hit the ball and it sailed over the net and clear of the court markings on the other side.

Out.

By miles too.

I scowled for the umpteenth time and watched the ball as it rolled to the corner of the court. Suddenly, the thump of a heavy bag in the grass behind me, caught my attention.

"If you step forward into the ball and keep your body open and facing forwards, you will be able to control the ball more." The humour in the deep, huskier tones grated my already frayed nerves and I turned to find one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen leant casually against the fence. His good looks stopped my anger in my throat and my jaw dropped a little as a blush coloured my cheeks. Great, my sporting failure was witnessed by another and not only that, a Greek god.

His tousled bronze hair glistened in the hazy, late afternoon sun, wet from a shower most likely since his clothes were crisp, clean and dry. His jeans were fashionably worn and hung low on his hips as a T-shirt clung to his torso, his arms crossed across his muscled chest. His eyes were hidden behind large dark, aviator sunglasses and his chiseled jaw cut in well-defined lines beneath them. At his feet lay a large balck and yellow racquet bag, the word Babolat emblazoned across its front.

I licked my lips, suddenly wishing I hadn't just pulled on my brother's old, worn sweats and a T-shirt I meant to throw out years ago. My hair, despite being in a ponytail, was falling out in disarray about my face and I wore a nice sheen of sweat from the summer afternoon. Sexy.

He indicated with his chin to the ball I had just hit, "Try again." His lips curled into a sinfully crooked smirk and I found myself ensnared beneath his charm, despite the teasing gleam in his eye. I went to move, but faltered, flustered and unsure, yet finally my legs worked and I scuttled over to the ball. Picking it up from its grassy bed, I walked back over to the end of the court.

"Stand in the middle, at the base line." His voice commanded, and willingly I obeyed. I cast him a sideways glance, wishing I was dressed in one of those short skirt/dress ensembles the top female players wore. Instead, I looked like a tom-boy. "As you throw the ball up, step into it as you hit it. It would be easier to do if you were receiving the ball from the other side of the court though."

I threw the ball up a little to the right for my racquet arm to receive as I stepped forward with my left foot. "Good! Now, keep watching the ball and swing. Keep facing forward." I did as he said, my arm swinging forward and up across my body. The racquet touched the ball with the lightest touch and the ball flew away with a graceful arc that landed it neatly within the baseline on the opposite side of the net.

"Better."

I smiled delightedly, inwardly celebrating that this beautiful stranger had managed to draw some form of skill from within me.

"Thank you!" I grinned looking between the Graecian god and where my ball had landed. He opened his mouth to speak, but was stopped when a small woman with short, wild black hair came hurrying up to him. "Edward! Come on! You're late, again! We have a meeting in an hour and we have got to get to the other side of London!" She was a ball of energy in her designer suit as she ushered him to pick up his bag. She was beautiful too. Her small stature took nothing away from the vibrant personality that radiated from her as she said something I could not hear and they both laughed. Reaching down to pick up his bag, Edward looked back at me, smirking and dipping his head in salute as he turned, following the young woman as she lead the way back down the path between the courts.

I watched them until they turned the corner and were gone from sight. The sound of my brother clearing his voice from the entrance of the court startled me. His eyes were wide with disbelief as he looked between me and where the couple had just disappeared. "Oh my god Bells, that was Edward Cullen!"

I blinked, "Who?'

Seth merely stared at me for a moment, his jaw slack and shock written across his face. He seemed immobilized by my ignorance for a moment before he seemed to shake himself out of it, his head shaking as he chuckled softly in disbelief. "No one Bells." He turned away from me to pick up the last ball and place it in his ball bag and as he did, I was sure I heard him say 'Unbelievable".


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

It was five months on from my brother's ill-conceived tennis lesson and we were sat in the stands of the O2 arena in London. Renee, our mother and Phil, had paid out a small fortune to buy the best seats in the arena so that Seth would have ample opportunity to watch the game. It was dark in the arena with white and blue lighting surrounding the court in the center of the arena. Around us, music pumped to rouse the crowd as people were toing and froing in between the matches.

"Who's playing next?" I murmured as I attempted to remove the splotches and dots of paint from my hands and arms. It was winter break from my university, but it did not stop me working on art and photography for the commencement of next semester. My mother had to prize me away from the easel to come out for the game today. As much as I loved my brother, we had our own interests.

My mother leant across Seth to scowl at me, 'Honestly Bella! Your brother is about to turn professional, the least you can do is show a small interest in the game and its top players. What if your brother plays against them one day?!" With a huff she sat back as my brother chuckled beside me. "It'll be a good match Bells, it's the world number two against the world number three. I promise you will find it exciting."

As he finished a voice over the speakers began to rouse the crowd for the commencement of the next match. With much gusto and a great deal of wind up, the commentator heralded the arrival of the players. The spotlights swooped to the corner of the court stalking each player as they came in lugging their bags to much adulation.

The cacophony of voices quieted as, on the large screens in the corners of the court, profiles of each player appeared. The first was for the world number 2 and my eyes were drawn to the picture that held a familiar shock of bronze hair. I sat forward in my seat to get a better look and indeed, it was the Greek God of Tennis Tips himself. In the close up picture he wore the trademark crooked smile, relaxed, if a little cocky. His eyes were a brilliant and mesmerizing green I noted, and framed with thick black lashes, I could not tell behind his aviators before. He seemed young, my age if not a little older.

My heart beat in my chest as the crowd screamed their approval. My eyes flitted over his profile information before it disappeared from the screens. His name was Edward Cullen and he was two years older than me at 22. He had 40 titles 7 of which were grandslams but he had never won here.

As if reading my mind, my brother leant across, shouting loudly to be heard over the screams and pumping music in the arena. "There are 4 grandslam tournaments in the playing year. The Australian Open, French Open, Wimbledon and the US Open. They are the biggest tournaments you can win, the Olympics aside of course." He gave a smirk and an eyebrow wiggle. My brother had plans, big plans, one of which was to stand on the Olympic tennis podium receiving gold.

"Better get playing then." I quipped. The London Olympics were under a year away. He rolled his eyes and sighed wistfully, realistically we were looking at least to the Rio Olympics in 2016. He needed to get out of juniors and turn pro before he could even entertain that idea. However, his coach, Demetri a former grandslam winner, seemed to think he had the ability at the end of next year. My brother was only 16 after all.

I returned my attention to the screen and saw that Edward's profile had gone, replaced by the current world number three, James Hunter. His achievements were fewer than Edwards, but not by much. Their stature was similar too but James was older at 27.

James, had dirty blonde hair tied back into a pony-tail with a bandana about his head. His eyes were ice blue and his face was determined and angular. I stared at the enlarged picture of him, startled by the depth and intensity of his stare. Seth was right, I was looking forward to this match, a lot.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The music continued to blast as the players sat in their designated white bench seats on either side of the umpire's chair. I found my eyes drawn to Edward where he was pulling out a black and yellow Babolat racquet from the same, if not an identical bag to the one I saw him with back at the All England Club. Turning to my brother I requested the program so I could read up more about Edward. I took the glossy over-priced magazine and began flipping through the pages as I heard my mother turn to Seth.

"Maybe in the next few years you will be here Seth?" My mother added excitedly, if a little wistfully. My mother, on occasion, ran dangerously close to being a 'Pony Club mother.' A pony club mother is better known universally as the mother who is constantly pushing their darling child to achieve in every way. However, where we came from in rural Warwickshire, England, every child had a pony and was in the pony club and every child knew of the screaming parents who put their child back on their pony when they fell off despite tears. Demetri's argument to that would be that you never learn the determination and commitment unless you are pushed to your limits by yourself or another.

My brother snorted at her comment. "Hardly. Only the top six players at the end of the year get to play here mum. Unless I get into that group by some miracle my first year of pro tennis, its not going to happen."

I found the page with Edward's info and began to skim read as I drowned out their conversation. Edward was born in Oxford, England and turned pro when he was 15 – we had thought Seth was doing well… He won his first grandslam – the US Open, at the age of 17 and furthered his titles with two more US Open wins and victories in the French and Australian. He was trained by his uncle, Aro Volturi when his family refused to send him away from home to a specialist school in the US.

On court Edward was said to be a perfect sportsman, gracious in his losses and victories and respectful of his opponent. James Hunter, however, was heralded the 'bad boy of tennis.' He played aggressively and he violent if the game did not go his way. Apparently he had at least 4 racquets ready before a match with 3 more being stung during, just in case.

Excessive and in need of anger management was my deduction.

Finally the players rose from their seats and with the prematch protocol at the net complete, they knocked up. The crowd resumed their excited chatter as the players rallied together in warm up, drifting through a range of shots until the umpire called time to whoops and shouts from the crowd.

Silence began to fall as Edward nodded to the ball girl who passed him three balls, he checked them and then threw one back. Walking to the baseline, the ball bouncing effortlessly between his racket and the court, he glanced at his opponent. Catching the ball mid air, he bounced it by hand, his body perfectly positioned on the baseline as he threw the ball into the air with a final glance over the net. With the sound of a cracking whip to break the intense silence that had fallen, his racquet hit the ball and he began the game with an ace.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Art. My life had always been about expression through vision. A picture, with paint or by the light of a camera, spoke to me on so many levels. The way an artist created something within their mind and passed their inner thoughts onto others, and then, how everyone sees a different something that speaks to them within the same picture. It was why I sat with paint still in my fingernails and up my arms. It was why my dorm room was full of sketches and nearly every pair of jeans had a complimentary spot of paint. It was me.

I understood the expression of a person through an art form, what I was not ready for was to witness an equally raw expression of ones self through sport. Sport was everything in my family, it drove Seth and through Phil it paid our bills and my university education. I had always taken it for granted and frowned upon the animalistic nature of players and spectators. I had also always presumed that grace and beauty belonged to art, music and dance, but I was so wrong.

As I watched the match unfold amidst a cocoon of silent energy generated by the crowd. I was buoyed by the silence that grew and grew until it crashed, splitting apart like a wave upon the rocks and shore. Screams and shouts filled the stadium as a point was won or lost. It was the exquisite pain upon a loss and the blinding thrill as a point was won.

Above all that, it was the grace and beauty by which Edward moved. It was balletic and aggressive in one, like a glorious piece of music that had you sat upon the edge of your seat as the notes built up to a crescendo. The squeak and squeal of rubber soled trainers upon the court as they built power and changed direction in a slide did nothing but add a rawness to the game. It was the crack of the ball upon the racquet; its speed blistering and the sound like a matador's whip.

Edward played with a grace and precision, each ball finding the lines when it mattered. He was power and ease in one. The exclamations of effort grounding for the amount of himself he sacrificed for each point.

Beside me Seth commented on the good plays and the bad, but it meant nothing to me. Everything had become so simple, James was the enemy and everything I had was put into supporting Edward, my heart and soul, just for one night; for now. Raw energy pulsed about us in waves until silence fell once again for match point.

James was serving, his attitude dominant, his battle not lost until the last point was gone from his grasp. Across the court, facing us Edward watched the ball like a hawk. His body was attuned, his skin glistening with sweat and a searing passion in his eyes. James served the ball and it landed in the farthest corner of the service box and sailed out wide. Like a lion Edward stalked it, racquet catching it and casting it straight down the line. The ball curled through the air in a graceful arc spinning in to find the baseline just in time.

The crowd were on their feet with screams and cheers and Edward was on his knees in jubilation and exhaustion. Seth grabbed my arm, tugging me from my seat. I turned from the scene before me to find my mother already standing and Seth tugging me after her. I rose, torn between watching the celebration and leaving too. I followed them, but my eyes were on Edward. They were on the sweatbands he threw to the crowd, the ball he hit to them and his muscled chest as he changed out if his sweat drenched top. Too soon I could see him no more and the screams died as we emerged from the stadium into the cool concrete of the perimeter walkways. Finally able to hear each other properly Seth turned to me, "Demetri is backstage he wants to meet me. He said you and mum can come too."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

As we walked through the white washed pathways that circled the arena like burrows, we could hear the heavy celebratory music that was pumping into the stadium. Cheers shook the walls as we wove through the initial wave of people fleeing their seats to escape the impending crush when the audience cleared.

Silence fell for a split second until a woman's voice echoed through the tunnels announcing Edward as victor and questioning his feelings on such a nail biting but magnificent performance. A tired, husky chuckle rippled to me and all my attention was riveted upon it as that low voice I remembered murmured like silken chocolate.

The conversation turned to murmurs as we slipped away from the perimeter walls and out into the cooler air of the foyer. Great, long escalators churned ahead of us and we rode down slowly upon the metallic steps. My brother was literally buzzing with anticipation for being backstage, his fingers thrumming on the black handrail.

It wasn't long a long walk on ground level until we were met by a steward who slipped a bright blue lanyard around each of our necks. Silver VIP tags shone in the lighting as we were ushered through a side door at the end of a dead end corridor. The backstage corridors were far more glamorous than the cold, painted stone walls we had to walk down. For once, I was hoping my brother did make it big, particularly when we passed a plush red, dimly lit lounge specifically for the elite. The steward smirked at our awed faces, "We have had a few celebrities relax after concerts in there." Turning back around she carried on speaking into her black headset, her painted nails holding the earpiece closer.

We passed through large metal doors into a large room. Couches were dotted through the area with tall glass windows along one wall that overlooked a blue court similar to the main one in the arena. This court, however, was overlooked by passersby on the perimeter street of restaurants within the complex.

There were 3 TV's in the room. One had a video games console, a second was playing the local news and a third had a live feed into the arena. I noticed that the court had emptied and people were leaving the stands. They would have all filled out into main arterial routes leading out of the arena. I could only imagine the congestion.

"Ah! Seth!" Demetri's voice roused me from my thoughts as he entered from a side door on the far side of the room. Behind him a man with jet black hair followed in a smart suit.

"I am glad you found your way back here. I want you to meet Aro Volturi." The man with jet black hair stepped forward, his eyes were a piercing grey and he gazed at my brother like a hawk.

"Aro, this is the boy I was telling you about." Demetri continued on, his excitement about this meeting palpable. My brother extended his hand to Aro and they shook, despite Aro had not yet said a word. His gaze was still like ice and I could see my brother quake beneath it. My mother stepped forward, whether out of her own awestruck excitement or to save my brother, I do not know. "Mr Volturi, an honour to meet you. I am Renee Dwyer, Seth's mother."

Renee gave a nervous smile, as flustered as my brother. Mr Volturi's smile was tight and his attention slowly returned to my brother. Unfussed by Aro's cool reception, Demetri swept him and my brother away so the three of them could discuss whatever it was we came here for.

My mother watched them go, her hands clasped nervously for a moment before she turned to me. "You could have introduced yourself Bella." She scolded softly, her eyes already wandering off to view the pictures that lined the wall of the room. "It is important your brother's talent is recognized by people like Aro. He is like the…. Simon Cowell of tennis."

I snorted and rolled my eyes, "So, a dick then?"

"Isabella!" My mother scolded, horrified. Her eyes shifted swiftly over to Aro incase he had heard my derogatory comment. Stepping toward me she lowered her voice into a disapproving hiss, "Aro is incredibly influential and his ability to train a player to the top level is outstanding. His nephew is one of the top three players in the world after all, tipped even to be one of the greatest in history!" Such a thought did nothing to quell the fire in me that awoke upon mention of Edward Cullen.

Just then the door Aro had entered through burst open in a flurry of activity and rowdy laughter. A tall man with curly brown hair bowled in laughing and gesticulating loudly. "Man, the touch you had on that ball, it floated so softly over the net." He groaned as if he was tasting the elixir of the gods. Behind him, the dark haired girl I recognized from the All England club chirped up delightedly, "Which one? Every drop shot was like magic." She grinned, her red stained lips beautifully accentuating her crisp cut hair. With a delighted squeal, she turned to the open doorway as Edward stepped through, his head lowered rubbing a towel over his hair.

He had changed out of his match clothes and wore trousers similar to the ones I had seen before. He wore a T-shirt, its collar damp, clearly from where his hair had dripped. His teeth were chattering as he murmured, "We need to improve the warm up after my ice baths," effectively dismissing their comments, despite the smile that curled his lips.

Whipping the towel from his head he threw it at the taller guy who caught it effortlessly. Only as Aro cleared his throat pointedly, did the three look up to notice other's in the room. "He missed one too many easy forehands down the line and his footwork into the drop shot needs to be better." His criticisms silenced the room, but only until the girl smiled, bouncing back as she crossed the room to Aro lightly. "Maybe not, but every single drop shot was in and out of Hunter's range, Uncle." With that she rolled her eyes and lay a kiss upon his cheek.

Edward, looked thoughtful, his eyes suddenly glazed with a look of pensive determination as if chastising himself and refocusing. Slowly his gaze rose, finding his sister, his brother and then me.

"Come on." He murmured, his gaze electric as it held mine in a sea of green. My heart raced in my chest, thrumming in my throat as my skin tingled with the intensity. I went to move, to dutifully follow as he said, but before I did, his gaze tore away to look at his friends, "The clipper is waiting apparently and I want to get back." The three of them crossed the room, leaving by the door I had entered with Seth and my mother. Edward was last to leave, a sly, second glance cast my way as his lips lifted into a delicious smile, his head dipping my way in farewell.

I licked my lips, suddenly convinced I did not need the extra coat I brought for the walk back to our hotel.


End file.
